Bear Crepov carefully made his way to the front line of the Russian advance. The Siberian Tigers were excellent marksmen—many Dená lay splayed and torn in the meadow. The Russian artillery waited in silence, but shells from behind the Dená lines now fell on the Russian rear.
It’s up to us to turn the tide, he realized.
A small armored column appeared from the direction of Chena Redoubt. Bear expected it to meet the Russian armor attempting to ford the Chena. A thrill of excitement ran through him when most of the column turned toward his position, spread out, and charged.
The Russian artillery resumed with a vengeance. A half-track took a direct hit. At this distance one couldn’t differentiate between truck and human parts as they rained across the meadow.
The people around him stopped firing as they watched the gunners on the far bank try to hit the command car. Like a bumblebee, it dodged and darted across the meadow toward them. The machine gunner in the back of the car tried to bring his weapon to bear on the men in the tree line, but the bouncing vehicle allowed only a few rounds to sing harmlessly past them.
For the troops holding the tree line the war fell into a bubble caught in time as they watched the nimble car. Even Bear found himself holding his breath, as the uneven duel lengthened.
The front of the car abruptly disintegrated and the explosion blew its body backward in a slow flip.
The spell over the tree line shattered. For long moments they had all empathized with the enemy driver, man against death. A collective moan of disappointment rose and men hurriedly fired at the advancing Dená, now less than three hundred meters away.
Another Russian artillery round shrilled over the meadow. Bear realized the gunners had lost the range, and that the shell was going to land close to him. He threw himself behind a fallen tree trunk and hugged the ground.
The blast killed a score of troopers and blew down twice as many trees. Even though it was their own shell that hit them, the Russians cursed the Dená and intensified their fire.
The column abruptly halted at two hundred meters and troops spilled out, taking cover and returning fire. An armored personnel carrier stopped last and two of the Dená from the command car jumped down. One of them was huge, and Bear could see the man didn’t have a right arm.
Bear rested his Kalashnikov across the tree trunk and blazed away. Two rangers and a Siberian Tiger shared the cover with him. The Siberian Tiger said, “Oh!” as a bullet pierced his head just under the lip of his helmet, snapping his head backward and knocking him flat.
“Fuckin’ Dená are good shots,” he muttered to himself. “Better go off automatic and see if I can pick them off one at a time.” He wished he had his scoped hunting rifle; it was far more accurate than this crappy assault weapon.
Suddenly the huge Indian was on his feet. His voice carried clearly,
“Enough! Let’s take them once and for all!” And they charged the Russian line. The large man waved an axe over his head.
The Russians paused in their fire, laughing at the insane audacity of the Dená, especially the one-armed man with the axe. Wagers flashed back and forth as to who would hit him first.
Bear felt a rush of kinship with the madman. Finally, here was a foe worthy of him. “No!” he screamed at the men around him. “He’s mine.”
The line went silent as he threw down his Kalashnikov, pulled Claw from its oiled sheath, and charged the huge Indian.
The Dená charge wavered, stopped, and went to ground as the two massive men closed.
Bear bellowed at the Dená, “You are mine!” and put his left hand behind his back, gripping his belt. This would be fair, by God!
“Then come and get me!”
When they engaged, Bear brought Claw down in a killing strike but the Indian parried it with his axe handle. Neither lost his balance as they danced away from the other. Bear realized they were a perfect match and a fierce elation gripped him.
The Dená swung his axe and Bear jerked back, heard the whisper as blade sliced air. He laughed. “I am Bear Crepov, a bold promyshlennik and killer of beasts and Dená ! Who are you?”
The man’s eyes blazed in hatred. “I am Malagni, warrior and Colonel in the Dená Republik Army. Killer of Russian scum, especially Cossacks and promyshlenniks!”
Bear darted in and swiped at Malagni’s arm. He might be fighting with only one hand, but he was using everything else he had. As Malagni fell back Bear leapt forward and kicked him in the chest.
Malagni rolled over backward and landed on his feet, pulled his arm back and sent his axe directly at Bear. Bear threw himself to the side, falling in the process. At least the man was empty-handed now.
The axe whistled a foot past where Bear’s head had been. A thong hooked to the axe handle on one end and tied to Malagni’s wrist on the other jerked the weapon back to Malagni’s hand. The Indian never slackened his charge—he rushed toward Bear and savagely swung down at him.
Fear lent wings to Bear’s feet as he rolled away and jumped up. He stifled the desire to throw Claw at Malagni, knowing a miss meant he was a dead man. Instead he threw himself at the Indian, slicing a shallow wound across the moose hide-covered chest.
As blood welled from the cut and soaked into the shirt, Bear suddenly became aware of the Dená surrounding them and the Russian weapons pointed at them—all in a frozen tableau. Neither of them could win this thing.
The certainty of death released him from his few inhibitions and he snapped—went berserk. Screaming in rage, he rushed Malagni and jammed Claw deep into the man’s chest.
Malagni jerked away, knowledge of death in his eyes, and swung the axe in a vicious arc that ended at Bear Crepov’s head.
Bear’s last cognition was the stink of hot blood on sphagnum moss.